Thing

lurking in the corner like a symphony
unfinished

tepid through the warming up
the fashions of plink and pluck
the style of the fingers
and the fall of the hammer
the pulse that it formed
and where it took you

beat up old cloths lying
in the back of the garden
worn clothes that have no labels
toed morning imprints in the dew
corny fat acorn imprecise and direct
falling under the woven ice shields
cause the storms to ball it up

fallen spaghetti all over the walls
fish pulled up lying on the jetty
because there is no pete in the tar
no leak in the deep jar
no leaf to turn red as summer lies
dead in the grass

plenty of seats for the reds
and done deeds tailing the ends of threads

lost for the meantime
in mounds of paper
demanding attention

lost for the meantime measuring
the depth of the caper
and avoiding frustration.

The thing in the corner grunts and turns away

it is a hot summer's day
so sit down and pray
the for thing
out loud

bends in heat

join in the slippery grin
kill a few pauses with a gentle weave
to sort out the clauses in the folding leaves
dripping under causes that cause her to weep
over pools of dormentaries with
dripping holes in the roof
any hunt for mystery
a part of the dance is the sword
it never can cut but it adds
danger to the magic
equation providing pulses of danger
to remind us to slow down
not to take the wheel into our hands
like any old murderer can

Faint distance behind the dust
the roads and all they take
from us.

tender soft

pitter patter go the feet
feeling a way around
fitter fatter the complete
paraody of tarnished fatherhood
bit of rat on the street
tipped hat at the police
long explanations at the border
the taking of drifters as
prisoners and setting them to
lunch with bankers
the listing of hit listers
driving the harbour masters
starkers as they try and keep
the evening from closing
the parks at night
so the pixies can play
undetered by noisey children
or kidnappers fast asleep
losing their way

ruby

flawed to the eye
yet smooth to the finger
hold it to light
and it falls and
breaks the ground
skip over the crease
the folds of your skin
the taste of your feet
and the skip over the crease
the lift of your eye lids
to the drip of your aphids
from the heavy heart
of a flower
to the black pits dug
by disease every hour